At dawn on Day 64, the kitchen fire was burning low. Its embers glowed dull red beneath a crust of white ash.
Maud Venn stood at the hearth with a clay pot mug of hot chicory water between her calloused palms. Her gray hair was still tucked under her night kerchief. Her heavy wool shawl was wrapped tight against the morning chill. Spread out on the table before her was the second copy of the expedition charter, the ink black and dry beneath the morning light.
Kezra came down the narrow stairs with her pack frame on her shoulders, her boots newly greased with sheep fat and her brass sighting tube buckled into its leather case at her hip.
Maud didn’t turn around right away. She took a slow sip of hot chicory, set the mug on the mantle beside Davren’s knife. Then she turned to look at her daughter.
“I read your four rules,” Maud said. Her voice was flat. He carried the dry, steady, unrushed pace of a woman who had spent thirty years watching wet clay crack or survive the fire. “They’re good rules. Any sensible drover would nod at them over a mug of ale. Don’t go deaf, don’t starve, don’t guess at holes in the ground, and don’t climb where you can’t carry a broken leg.”
